There's a man who sits on the Madison Street Bridge every day. He plays his drums with his palms, pounding out the same rhythm with every clap. It's a jazzy run, a rush hour march, the perfect tempo for workers trying to make it from point A to point B, trying to make their trains or their buses or their cabs, trying to get home as soon as they possibly can. Each day it's the same tune, never changing, though sometimes interjected with shouted phrases like "Santa Clause is coming to your house" like "Everyone thanks God it's Friday." I have no clue how long this man's been playing his drums or been playing that bridge, but he adds life to that walk, he sets the pace of traffic. Today though, there was something different in his tune. The sound was off, weird, odd. I just thought maybe he'd changed his changed his tune, was mixing it up and trying something different. I glanced over at him and noticed what had changed. He was trying something new, not in rhythm but in instrument. Perched on top of his normal upturned buckets was a real drum and a real cymbal.